


Even Soldiers Have Heroes

by CapGirlCanuck



Series: Baker Street Boys One-shots [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-typical language, Doctor John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Heroism, John Watson Needs A Hug, John Watson is a Good Doctor, Mary and Sherlock are proud of John, Post-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Remembrance Day, Remembrance Sunday, Reunions, Soldiers, War in Afghanistan, war memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27519451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: "Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."On a very special Remembrance Sunday, John Watson gets some emotional reminders that what he has done mattered. And that he is a hero to more than one person.(Post Empty Hearse)My contribution with the greatest respect to November 11th.
Relationships: John Watson & Original Character(s), Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Baker Street Boys One-shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936546
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Even Soldiers Have Heroes

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's still the 11th where I am, so this counts. I've been hammering away at this all day, and I hope it's good enough.  
> I just wanted John to have something nice happen for once, and it was a perfect tie in to Remembrance Day.  
> I want to make it clear that war is never simple, and where one person might have a hopeful story, others have hard stories. This is just supposed to be one story of hope, fictional though it may be. Because John needs some of that.  
> Also, any feedback on my British and/or military language that will make this sound better is enormously appreciated.

_There were things John knew he would never forget, never be able to delete from his hard drive; he wasn’t like Sherlock._

He stood tall and straight, Mary’s hand in his, as the clock began to strike and the gun boomed.

_But that was… the way it was. Those memories, those experiences, were part of him, of his life._

Eleven times Big Ben tolled above their heads, the people around them settling, heads bowing, children stilling, hats coming off.

_The taste of Afghani dust, kicked up by helicopter rotors. The whine of an incoming mortar. The smell of sweat inside latex gloves. The feel of blood crusted on skin. The hiss of breath between clenched teeth. The rat-tat-tat of distant gunfire._

He kept his shoulders back, at attention, eyes only half seeing the rows of House Guards standing in the street.

_Sometimes he wished he could forget, like on the bad days, which were a lot fewer now. Most of the time he was just thinking about something else. And then there were days, especially like today, when he let himself recall things._

They stood at an angle to the roadway, turned to face the flags that rippled in a chill breeze whisking its way down Parliament Street. A beam of sunlight slipped between the clouds and struck down upon the Cenotaph, turning the stone to a dazzling white.

_He’d been there for a reason after all. Even if the had muddied and blurred over each successive tour, and he narrowed his gaze to the one thing that made sense: Saving lives._

John squinted slightly.

_But at what cost?_

Mary stood straight and still, only squeezing his hand a few times in the long silence. He knew she was proud of him, proud that he had served, and saved, and somehow found his way back home. The home that now included her.

_It was one of those questions that not even Sherlock Holmes could give a satisfactory answer to._

£

She wondered just what he was thinking, wondered what he was remembering. It gave her an odd ache somewhere inside.

She’d heard some of his stories. The one about Fraser who had been shot through the heart, except his heart wasn’t there. The one about Doc Silvanus getting hit with shrapnel on his way back from the loos. The one about the kids. Actually, there was more than one about kids. The ones about Sholto.

It made her proud, made her humbled, that her John should be one of the brave ones, one of the good ones.

But it also gave her shame, shame she buried deep. Because how could she tell him now? Tell him his wife, whom he thought so ordinary, had been like him? Except worse?

She who had _not_ given what she had to serve others, asking nothing more than a bit of food and a job to do. But instead sold her skills to the highest bidder.

He would hate her, despise her. Never want to see her again.

And she couldn’t do that. Because after all this time, after all those years of seeing, and doing, and killing the dreams of a little girl for something more, those dreams had come true. And it would hurt too much to let go now.

She tightened her grip on John’s hand, and pulled herself straighter, as the gun boomed once more.

£

_Standing in the sun under a high, pale sky, elbow to elbow with his brothers, while two trumpets played the Last Post, and a man who should have been standing in front of him was not._

He had forgone his uniform and medals again this year. It wasn’t that he disliked wearing it or them, it was just that… he rather liked blending in. Be a member of the crowd.

Like the mum with two little girls to his right, the one with the single long braid smiling shyly at him, before ducking behind her mum’s flowing black skirts. Or the young men, probably tourists, thumbs through their knapsack straps, starting to talk among themselves.

_An old man, scraggly beard hanging down his chest, standing stock still to watch the caravan of lorrys pass, while a boy in a blue jacket scrambled madly to round up the fleeing goats._

Most of his old platoon were still over there. Last he knew, he was the only one wounded seriously enough to be invalided home. Even Rory Silvanus had been cleared to go back a few weeks after John was shipped to Germany.

_“Watson! We’ve got two coming in! Shrapnel to the hand, moderate, and the other to the foot. That’s serious. You take foot, I’ll take the other. ETA: Twelve minutes.”_

_“IED?”_

_“RPG. Hit a wall beside them.”_

As much as he appreciated the recognition, medals were also embarrassing. Because that wasn’t why he’d gone, wasn’t why he’d done any one of the things he’d done there.

_“Stay down! Are you listening to me? Don’t move.” He was practically nose to nose with Sonora, braced in a plank above him, covering him._

_“Are you bleeding?”_

_Well, at least he was talking, conscious. But the way he’d fallen, John was pretty sure there was a neck injury involved._

_John’s shoulder felt like burning fire, his arms were beginning to shake. But he locked his eyes on the nurse’s green ones. “Yeah, but hey, red looks good on my uniform.” Another explosion rocked the lorry next to them, showering them with God knew what; something hard struck John's helmet._

He’d gone because it meant he could get away, more permanent than going to the gym. But he’d stayed for the people. The ones next to him. And for the adrenaline.

_“You’re not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it.”_

In a sense, what Mycroft had said was true. But no, he did _not_ miss mortars blazing like fireworks against the stars. He didn’t miss little kids coming in with their legs half blown off. He didn’t miss the ancient dust in his teeth.

No, he had excitement with Sherlock, and doctoring with Mary, and that was all enough.

_“You’ll be okay, Wats.”_

_“You oughtta get a DSC for all that.”_

_“Hold on there, mate.”_

A thousand voices melding together in the old words, “God save the Queen,” the song he’d sung since he was a little boy, and his father lifted him to his shoulders to see the guardsmen and the soldiers, all standing at attention.

_“We got Sonora; he’s looking good.”_

_“Cheers, mate.”_

_The hands around him, patting him on the good shoulder. He was just glad he had enough in him to walk onto the plane for the ride. Faces flashing by, a hand steadying his elbow._

“John?”

He looked into Mary’s face, her eyebrows drawn together quizzically. The service was ending, the band was playing, the troops were drawing together and beginning to march off.

“Right.” He gave her a little smile. “I suppose we should get lunch somewhere.”

“And we mustn’t forget some take-out for Sherlock.” She slipped her arm through his as they turned in the direction of the nearest Underground station. “Didn’t he say he had a case this morning?”

“Yeah, I think so.” John tilted his head back, squinting again in another surprise beam of sunshine. “What do you feel like?”

“Watson!”

The shout echoed off the buildings, clear over the crowd noise and music. John wheeled sharply to see a uniformed man jogging across the roadway toward him, easily vaulting the barrier to the pavement.

By the time he remembered to let out his breath, the soldier was directly in front of him, eyes wide, smile glowing, as he drew himself up and saluted. Instinctively John reciprocated, before he was grabbed in a bear hug, the taller man almost lifting him off his feet.

Still stunned, John embraced him in return, catching a whiff of something… dusty under the clean uniform and aftershave. A hint of what the war smelled like.

“Good heavens, mate!”

Captain Rory Silvanus—no, those were a major’s epaulets on his broad shoulders now—shook his head, half-laughing. John felt a grin stretching across his own face in response, along with a stinging in his eyes.

“Silver!” He gripped his old comrade’s arm, giving it a little shake. “What the bloody hell are you doing here? I thought you were still over there.”

“Been back two weeks. No, make that three.” His clap to John’s shoulder was affectionate. “It’s gone by a good bit faster than I expected. But I suppose I should be glad. I know I’ll be bored soon enough.”

“How long is your leave?”

“Rest of my life. At least that’s the plan.”

John blinked, noting the number of grey hairs mixed in with the black.

The man they’d given the moniker of Silver, short for Long John Silver of course, shrugged. “Eh, it was about time I got out. You know, the kids are getting older, teenagers now, and there’s only so much you can miss before you might as well miss it all. Which I’ve never wanted to do.”

“How’s the shoulder?”

Silvanus rolled it vigorously, shrugged a couple times. “Good as ever. Stupid story to tell really, you know. Never went outside the wire and I still got a war wound. Thank God they let me go back. How’s yours?”

“Oh, fine.”

Silver eyed him keenly for a moment, before he shrugged, smiled. “Come on, Sonora is here. He’ll want to see you. And Monty and Vastrad. Monty, now…” The grin was mischievous. “He’s been looking for you. Come along now.”

“Sounding like a country boy again,” John smiled at the phrase he’d always imagined being used on a cow. “But hang on.” He turned to step back to Mary’s side. “This is my fiancée Mary Morstan. Mary, Rory Silvanus. Major Rory Silvanus.”

£

Silvanus. The other doctor John had worked with, the one who had been injured by shrapnel a couple of days before he was supposed to be sent out to a base closer to the fighting. But John had gone instead.

He was quite handsome, Mary noticed, as he smiled at her. The uniform helped.

“Pleasure’s all mine," he said. "You’ve got yourself a good man there, Ms. Morstan. One of the best I’ve ever known.”

“Oh, please call me Mary,” as they shook hands. “And I know, he is very special.”

“I think he’s pretty lucky too.”

She gave her nicest smile in answer. “Yes, he is.”

John watched them, still wearing a disbelieving smile which Mary thought was rather adorable. Meeting these old mates was looking like a lovely surprise to pull him out of the somber mood he’d worn all morning.

The medals on Major Silvanus’s chest seemed to be the ticket, considering how the bobbies were nodding respectfully, and waving them across the roadway.

“How did you even recognise me?”

She smiled at John’s question, glancing at the Major. “Yes, he does blend in, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, well, I’d know the way he squints anywhere. Although it was Sonora who picked you out first. The old eagle eyes. I still say he was wasted on the ground.”

“Except for the part about him not being a fan of heights.”

“Right.”

“Ayyy! What’s on, Doc?!”

A stocky dark-skinned guy was the first to step forward, to give John another rib-cracking hug. Mary smiled, catching the joke in the greetings, as she stood back with her hands in her pockets, enjoying the attention being payed to her John.

£

It was Sonora John couldn’t take his eyes off of. The younger man’s face was lit up, hands reaching out, as John stepped up to his wheelchair.

_The explosion rocking the ground, the big MRAP lifting into the air and rocking from side to side, before it finally settled. Watching a body tumble off the vehicle, landing on his head in a way that made John’s heart hammer._

_Bullets singing around them, screaming and shouting as the British forces collected, and returned fire. John racing toward the figure crumpled next to the smoking lorry._

_The horrible question: “Why can’t I move?”_

He bent awkwardly for the hug, and when he pulled back Sonora’s eyes were wet. “Wats,” he started, before a woman with long purple hair was suddenly there, ambushing John with another embrace.

“It’s you, I can’t believe it really is you.”

“Van,” David Sonora caught at her hand, and John blinked dazedly again. This was all a bit overwhelming, rather like one of those press scrums he and Sherlock sometimes had to deal with, but far nicer, far warmer.

“I’m sorry,” the woman was saying, dabbing at her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper. “I just, I owe you everything, Doctor Watson. Everything really.”

John had a hard time taking his eyes off the brilliant purple curtain of hair that fell past her elbows.

“This is my wife Vanita,” Sonora said proudly, then reached up to lay his hand over a little bump near the bottom of her jumper. “And our baby who is due in May.” There was a definite crack in his voice when he looked up John, and added, “Because of you.”

“Davy’s told me over and over,” Vanita broke in. “What you did that day. About the ambush, and the mines, and how you were wounded, but you still stayed and covered him.”

“I would have been killed, I don’t doubt, if you hadn’t shielded me.” Sonora shook his head, struggling with his emotions. “And then you did enough to make sure no more damage was done to my back, and because of that I got my hands and arms back.”

“And they think he might even walk again someday,” Vanita added, her hand covering her mouth as her eyes filled with tears.

No, he definitely wasn’t going to cry, definitely not, no… okay, he was crying. Slowly, John sank down to kneel beside his old nurse’s wheelchair, resting his hand on the man’s knee. David touched John’s shoulder.

“I never got to properly thank you for that day. You saved my life. You considered it more important than your own. I mean, you saved a lot of lives in that hospital tent, I know. I helped with that after all. But that day you were the angel watching over me. And I can never thank you enough.”

The last time John had seen Sonora, he hadn’t been able to move, he couldn’t feel his hands or feet, and it sounded like his lungs were beginning to shut down too. For all intents and purposes, he’d been paralysed from the neck down, and facing a life full of disabilities. And now…

He’d always believed in preserving life, but even as he’d been loopy with blood loss and pain, he’d watched Sonora being stretchered away, and half wondered what kind of life he was doomed for.

“Not everyone’s as lucky as me.”

_“Why can’t I move my feet, Wats?”_

“But I’m going to use every once of luck you gave me, best as I can.”

_“Just look at me, David. Don’t move.” Sweat sliding down John’s sides, collecting on his stomach, arms and legs trembling. “You’ll be okay, I promise you’ll be okay.”_

John could not speak, he only nodded.

£££££

Two other men joined John, Mary, Rory, David, and Vanita for lunch and drinks: the big staff sergeant they all called T, and a ginger corporal called Monty whom John didn’t really recognise.

When the tales of dance-offs in the snow wearing nothing but pants, and dropping water balloons on the Colonel, and filming the old Aussie they’d nicknamed Wallaby when he was singing Elvis in the shower, had all been ripped apart and laughed over again—and the family photos had all been admired—a lull settled over the tables.

T, whom John distinctly recalled digging a bullet out of once, called for a second round, his tab.

John sat back, putting his arm over the back of Mary’s chair, happier and more contented than he’d been in a long time. For these few hours it was good to be surrounded by old comrades, recalling memories he could share with no one else.

T’s teeth weren’t quite as white, probably still smoking at least a pack a week. Sonora still looked young, especially with his thick black hair grown out to hang in his eyes, and he kept his upper body in good shape. Monty—full name: Cougar Montgomery, yes, his first name was Cougar—was around the same age as John, with a thin face rather like Sherlock’s, and glasses. John noted what looked like ink stains on his little finger, then shook his head.

 _I’m turning into Sherlock. I wonder what he’s up to today. Didn’t give any details on his case. I wish he could be here._ Even though he would hate having to socialise with people he didn’t know.

“Captain Watson.” Monty was leaning forward, pushing his pint aside. “Doctor Watson.”

“Yes?” Now that John was paying attention to him, he noted how nervous the fellow seemed, tapping his fingers together.

“I’ve been looking for you. Or, I had started looking for you. And then we find you today, of all days…” His eyes seemed overly bright as he stared at John.

John could feel himself going on alert, leaning forward to rest both his arms on the table.

“Oh, not like that, Watson, relax.” Silvanus gave a small chuckle. “It really is a brilliant coincidence that we should be standing on the pavement across from you, and that we should see you just then. Because Sonora isn’t the only one with a story to tell.”

For a moment Monty hesitated, as if uncertain about where to begin, and John thought of interviewing clients.

“Why did you want to find me?”

He twisted to fish in the pocket of his sports coat hanging over the back of his chair. “I suppose the first thing is to give you this. That’ll explain a lot.”

Mary shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against his, reminding him of her presence. John frowned as the other man held out… a coil-bound sketchbook. He flipped it open to a page marked with a coloured tab, and placed it on the table in front of John.

He and Mary drew in their breath at the same moment.

“There was a whole lot of civcas that day. Over a dozen. They had to bring ‘em in in three loads.”

_It was Doctor John Watson, worn, weary, surgical mask dangling from one ear, sleeves rolled up, surgical gloves spotted with blood._

“Our men had been going in to clear this village, and the Canadians were coming up behind with supplies. But the bloody Taliban had cleared out already. And the bastards left a whole lot of presents behind. And of course, it wasn’t our guys who found ‘em.”

_In his arms he held a young girl, her long dark hair draped over his arm, her head resting against his shoulder. Her dress was traditional Afghani, with little embroidered things around the waist. The hem was ragged, and her one bare foot dangled._

“Mostly women and kids, a couple men. I was helping bring ‘em in from the ‘copters. Probably half of them were gone by the time they were landed. Her mum was. They’d run out of stretchers, and she was lying with her mum.” Monty stopped for a moment, collecting himself. “They hadn’t been able to make her let go, but by then she’d lost enough blood she was out. Lost her leg to an IED.”

_Springing from John’s shoulders were huge feathered angel wings, curving down behind him, probably reaching to his feet. The girl was cradled safe in his arms, one small hand resting against his chest, over his heart._

“You saved her that day. It was bonkers that day, everyone trying to be calm, but knowing we were gonna lose people if we didn’t move fast. I could tell her mum was gone, but she was still hanging on, and the other medic just told me to take her, to run. You were the one who took her, I remember the way your face dropped. And then I had to go. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Beautiful little girl.

“But I kept telling myself you could do it. You could save her. You’d saved Chelmson, and Williams, and Bacon. You were _good.”_

_John remembered that, he remembered it well enough._

“You had to take her leg off above the knee. But you did it, you saved her. And I kept seeing _that_ in my head.” He pointed to the paper. “I’ve done lots of sketches in Afghanistan. But that’s the one that means the most to me.”

£

There was a long silence, Mary’s hand on John’s upper arm.

“It’s beautiful,” she finally said softly. “But why did you want to find him to show him in person? Couldn’t you have mailed a copy?”

“Because.” The man was smiling now, his eyes glassing over. There was definitely pride in his face. And Mary was suddenly sure she knew what was coming next.

“I want you to meet her. The girl.” The soldier glanced over his shoulder toward the door, waving with one hand. “We adopted her. Got refugee status for her, and my wife brought her home. She’s sixteen now, planning on uni. Wants to study something to go back and help her people with. Her name is Asmaan.”

Monty stood, stepping to one side so as to direct attention past him. There was a lump in Mary’s throat too, as she felt John’s gasp.

Arm in arm, two women came toward them. Monty’s wife had short brown hair, tucked behind her ears; she wore a trim navy-blue dress, and Mary knew at once she was the nice cheerful, comfortable, kind of mother. The girl wore a flowing black skirt, and a white blouse under her black jacket which made the poppy pinned there stand out. A dark blue scarf covering her head, and her long black hair rippled down her back. She walked with a definite limp.

John was standing on instinct, and the girl was smiling, just a tad shy. Mary took a quick glance up at her husband-to-be’s face, saw the raw emotion there, and looked away just as quickly.

£

_Asmaan._

She paused to give her father a one-armed hug, before walking around the table toward him. John could hear the blood pounding in his ears, and he actually felt a little dizzy.

“I know it’s you.” Her voice was soft and sweet, her English clear. “From Dad’s picture. You’re the one who saved my life.” Her eyes were brown, with golden flecks in them.

John had no idea what to say. He had never expected something like this, never expected this kind of conclusion to the stories from his war days. He’d left those behind, and yet they were always part of him. And to stand her, and look into the face of a girl whose people he had been doing his part to try to help, yet never truly feeling like anything he was doing made a difference… it took his breath away.

“My mum and dad got me a new leg. Better than a pirate one.” Her eyes danced with the little joke, as she stuck out her one foot and lifted her skirt to show the skin-coloured prosthetic. “And I care very much about my people, and want to help them, after I get more schooling. But I wouldn’t able to do that, if you had not been my doctor.”

They were silent for a minute, watching each other.

“May I give you a hug?” Asmaan asked.

He did not hesitate to open his arms.

He could feel the strength in her, in the young arms that wrapped around his neck. She was warm and alive and full of dreams to change her world.

“I promise it wasn’t your fault,” she whispered in his ear. “You did not put those bombs there. You were only there to help us. We are a complicated people, with a complicated history. You were just doing your best. What you did there, it mattered. I promise.”

_“Major Sholto? Why do you fight?”_

_“Because someone must. And I’d rather it be me.”_

John closed his eyes, letting himself hold onto this moment. Because apparently you could get things you didn’t even know you needed. But he needed this.

£

Neither of them noticed the swirl of a long coat, disappearing out the door of the pub. Only Mary glimpsed the tall man with dark hair through the glass, and felt an odd pang.

Sherlock walked for some distance in the brisk breeze, before he thought to flag a cab. He was wrestling with a good deal of unexpected emotions.

Honestly, what had he expected? This was John, the bravest, kindest, wisest, most good-hearted man he’d even known. Of course, he was a hero.

All the times he had come to Sherlock’s rescue, backed him up, protected him. It was no real surprise that he had done all those other things—covering a man who was being fired on with his own body, performing life-saving surgery for a local girl. 

Perhaps what had truly surprised Sherlock was John’s response to these people. The gratitude, as if he were being given some priceless gift. It seemed to mean something to him, being thanked, being shown how he had helped people.

He knew that John would never call himself a hero. But that did not alter the fact that he was. A hero to many people. Not just Sherlock.

Because John had saved him too, if he let himself think of it like that. If he let himself remember where he had been before he met John Watson.

He gave his head an irritated shake, and carelessly stepped off the pavement into traffic, waving to a cab. But even as he rode back to Baker Street alone, he could not quite stop wondering how John would react if Sherlock told him that. Told him what he had done for Sherlock.

He sincerely hoped John wouldn’t cry. But there was definite happiness in everything John had expressed today. Maybe it would at least make John happy.

Sherlock could not help a little smile, before he again shook his head. He really did have a case to get back to. Although he’d solved half of it between the firings of the gun.

He tipped the cabbie, and unlocked the door, and ran lightly up the stairs to send an email.

**Author's Note:**

> civcas: civilian casualties  
> IED: Improvised Explosive Device, i.e. homemade bombs
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts. Kudos and comments always make me smile. (The dopamine rush!) Cheers!


End file.
